In The Spirit Of Care And Christmas
by fromunderthemountain
Summary: It's drawing closer to Christmas, but MI6 can't afford to stop just because it's almost the holidays. Q starts running himself into the ground in the lead up; can Bond get him to leave his post for five minutes with the promise of a Christmas-y cuddle? Shameless Christmas fluff with Skyfall's Q.


It had been one of those weeks that the operatives of Q Branch long to forget.

Monday:

003 gets lost in Siberia and his tracking chip ends up buried in a snow drift. A rescue crew ends up stuck in said snow drift whilst 003 recovers in a ski lodge.

Tuesday:

005 is blinded by a flash grenade in Taiwan and is sent back immediately. Medical fuss over him for three days before declaring his eyesight defective. His double-oh agent status is terminated and he is sent to Greece to oversee that branch of operatives to the best of his ability.

Wednesday:

003 is returned to England and M gives him the bollocking of his lifetime. The tense atmosphere from M's office can be felt throughout MI6 and no-one has a particularly productive or comfortable day. 007 returns on a separate flight in from America, battered and bruised.

Thursday:

0013 is apprehended in China. By the time a retrieval squad is assembled and ready to head out to get her back, she has formulated her own escape. When she lands back in Heathrow, M is not pleased. Moneypenny picks 0013 up from the airport and delivers her straight into M's jaws. Murmurs of betrayal circulate around MI6 in seconds.

A new Q Branch operative makes a joke that some people will do anything for money on the run up for Christmas. He's transferred and Q thinks it's quite the loss of potential over an ill-informed jest.

Friday:

007 spends the entire day bugging Q from Medical. His earpiece ends up in the bin, still buzzing with the sound of Bond's voice, by six o'clock that evening.

It came as no real surprise to anyone that Q had spent the entire week in Q Branch, working non-stop. He was the link between the rescue and retrieval teams and their respective agents, the coordinator for the flights in the absence of Moneypenny - an important family illness kept her away from her desk until Thursday - and he still had to work as the head of Q Branch on top of all of that.

He had found a few hours over the course of the week in which to curl up in his adjoining room for a quick rest, but nothing substantial. If there were any problems, he was alerted right away.

Some of his operatives forced him to eat in their own subtle way. He often found apples or oranges or sandwiches left on his desk, alongside a mug of tea, and would pin it to the operative that looked the most sheepish when he did a quick scan of the room.

But, by the time Saturday flickered into life in the corner of his laptop screen, heralded by the yawning portals of '00:00', Q was asleep. Not in the cot in 'his room', but at his desk.

His head had come to rest on his folded arms, glasses askew and curls covering what portion of his face was visible above the brown blanket of his cardigan-wrapped bicep. Q wasn't one to slack in his work, to drop the ball or lose the rhythm, but sometimes even the most dedicated of workers had to heed the calls of nature when they presented themselves relentlessly.

Q woke, stiff-necked and groggy, at half-past three. Q Branch was still devoid of life, barring himself. The lights, however, had been dimmed and a blanket placed over his shoulders.

The smell of tea filled his nose and he sought it out, a beagle drawn to the scent of a fresh fox. He lifted the mug and sipped at it appreciatively, humming a little as he did so. It was still warm and the steam rolled over his cool cheeks to match the heat sloshing in his stomach as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of Earl Grey. There was something else, however, some other scent in the air. Q frowned as he scanned his desk for the source.

His eyes came to rest on a plate sat atop a stack of important papers. Two mince pies sat on the white china with raised pastry stars sitting on their lids underneath a fine dusting of icing sugar.

Q picked the plate up and eyed the note on it suspiciously.

_I can't bake to save my life, so don't put me in that sort of situation unless you can help it. Or give me exploding oven mitts. Your call. Moneypenny, however, can. Don't work yourself too hard, Quartermaster, and try and get some real sleep. If you're not too hungry, leave the second one and I'll come and join you. If not, I'll bring my own next time. -J._

It was almost impossible to smile around a mouthful of mince pie, but Q managed it with a fair amount of grace. He tucked the note into his cardigan, polished both pies off - the last thing he'd eaten was an apple, and that had been Friday lunchtime - before retreating to his room.

When Bond entered an hour later, finally checked out of medical, he saw the crumbs on the plate, the black laptop screen and the drained mug of tea and smiled. He made his way into Q's room and closed the door behind him again, making sure to lock it once he had. He eased himself into the cot behind the Quartermaster and curled his arms around his waist, smiling softly against the back of his neck when Q rolled over in his arms, buried his face in his chest and pushed the blanket over them both.


End file.
